i want to be released and for all my
inhibitions to dissipate.
i want to know the feeling of no
pain and sincere emotion.
i dream of pure nothingness and sleep
for this alone.
pain is my rapture, on the cusp of lifelessness
and ghostly apparitions.
waking surreality brings me to
the brink of pleasure and i admonish
consciousness and am convinced only those
with no purpose should walk the face of the earth.
i deserve nothing.
who am i to say i am meant to change my own existence?
Is this not the job of fate and destiny?
who was the jerk that thought of flesh and mortality?
I prefer to sink in empty skies and float in endless seas.
I long to sleep in a bed of feathers, weighed down by brick.
my silent screams awaken me to the wish of one more
minute of unadulterated loneliness. i face the day
with my hands covering my face in hopes to be
invisible to the light radiating off of humanity.
There are few moments when i feel absolute well-being and
pleasure. i am affected to live for these moments.
it is then i can open up and release all my inhibitions.
i consent to be consumed by you.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Remediation in it's finest form!
After reading The Orchid Thief and viewing the film Adaption, I came up with these similarities and differences.
Connections:
Adaptation – Orlean is adapting real people to fit in her non-fiction accounts just as Kaufmann wrote real into his screenplay; all characters are adapted for these spaces through what is included and what is left out.
Anthropomorphization – Often the orchid in the book are described as having features of animals or people. This is shown visually in the film by a montage of people at an orchid show while stating physical features or by stating a type of animal in conjunction to the orchid it resembles.
Idea of Research – Just as Orlean surely researched her topic before writing her book, so did Kaufmann onscreen which hints at the idea that there is no new story to tell, just different ways to convey it.
Temporal Stability – Neither the film nor the book is chronological in narrative but rather slip into different stories which may or may not be sequential.
Themes of Evolution and Mutation – One of the first sequences in the film is the story of evolution which takes from the book the idea that orchids are one of the oldest living things on earth.
Differences:
Auditory Elements: Part of the story line of the movie was the Monkee’s song “Imagine You and Me” which moved character development along although music does not play a role in the book.
Exclusion: While Orleans writes long segments on other “characters” other than Laroche or herself, these Seminole Indians, other orchid lovers, and historic explorers, these people are largely left out of Adaptation.
Fictional Elements: Orlean had a journalistic responsibility to hold to the truth in telling the story while Kaufmann did not and thus was allowed to write his fictional twin into the movie who served as a plot point whereas the book is said to have no plot at all.
Interpretation: In Adaptation, we see the world of the Orchid Thief through the lens of filmmakers and the interpretation of the actors instead of using the imagination that comes with reading a book.
Underlying Themes: The humanistic and existentialistic themes are easily inferred from dialogue-heavy movie whereas the reader has to assume these themes from description-laden book.
Connections:
Adaptation – Orlean is adapting real people to fit in her non-fiction accounts just as Kaufmann wrote real into his screenplay; all characters are adapted for these spaces through what is included and what is left out.
Anthropomorphization – Often the orchid in the book are described as having features of animals or people. This is shown visually in the film by a montage of people at an orchid show while stating physical features or by stating a type of animal in conjunction to the orchid it resembles.
Idea of Research – Just as Orlean surely researched her topic before writing her book, so did Kaufmann onscreen which hints at the idea that there is no new story to tell, just different ways to convey it.
Temporal Stability – Neither the film nor the book is chronological in narrative but rather slip into different stories which may or may not be sequential.
Themes of Evolution and Mutation – One of the first sequences in the film is the story of evolution which takes from the book the idea that orchids are one of the oldest living things on earth.
Differences:
Auditory Elements: Part of the story line of the movie was the Monkee’s song “Imagine You and Me” which moved character development along although music does not play a role in the book.
Exclusion: While Orleans writes long segments on other “characters” other than Laroche or herself, these Seminole Indians, other orchid lovers, and historic explorers, these people are largely left out of Adaptation.
Fictional Elements: Orlean had a journalistic responsibility to hold to the truth in telling the story while Kaufmann did not and thus was allowed to write his fictional twin into the movie who served as a plot point whereas the book is said to have no plot at all.
Interpretation: In Adaptation, we see the world of the Orchid Thief through the lens of filmmakers and the interpretation of the actors instead of using the imagination that comes with reading a book.
Underlying Themes: The humanistic and existentialistic themes are easily inferred from dialogue-heavy movie whereas the reader has to assume these themes from description-laden book.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
whisper
His friend leaned to whisper in his ear, “that is the girl that disappeared a while ago and now she is back.”
He didn’t believe him nor was he ready to feed into the fantasy that long played in his mind. His fixed a disinterested gaze on the television screen that was mounted on the tavern’s wall. A sports game was playing and in the brief moment the camera panned to reveal the crowd, the image of a woman reminded him of someone he once knew. His friend insisted the girl across the bar was the same one he once felt for and put his life on hold for some time ago.
The girl across the bar resembled the girl in the camera’s eye and in an infinite amount of torrential bits, he tried to make some kind of connection but his mind had a hard time linking that physical being with the person he reveled with in his memory. Her hand was in her hair and she was in casual conversation with a group that seemed to be her friends. He wanted to be the person she smiled at.
Although her bright eyes shone, he saw something more passionate in her than this moment in the crowded tavern and for that brief second, he thought that he could understand. The crowd erupted in appreciation of a good play and he lost sight of her as he tuned his attention to the collective roar.
Hours later, he stumbled back inside after gulping fresh air between drags of cigarettes and slouched back into his assumed position on the bar stool. His friend was swearing up and down that the meaning of existence could be found in slice of fruit at the bottom of his glass to the girl next to him. It was her.
“you’re you,” he said to the girl on the other side of his friend.
“i am” she answered.
“i heard that you went away for a while.”
“i am back.”
“how did it go?”
“there is something to be said about getting away from all of this,” she raised her hand to indicate the surrounding rowdiness. “but really, it is all the same anywhere. I came back to feel more out of place than I did before.”
Her hair was different than the last time he saw her and her completion radiated atmospheres of sun and high altitudes. He wanted to confess that he couldn’t stop thinking of her and that his dreams were tormented of times they never spent together. He wanted to confess that she was too erroneous for him, he was too dependable for her, and that eternity was better left for fiction and films where adoration, reality, and consciousness were better left unaccountable to each other.
“there were things I missed, though, and some part of me is happy to return and to find my place is here,” she continued. “I tried to escape but I can’t imagine ever leaving and not longing to be home.”
His eyes returned to the game on screen and as much as he tried to focus on the plays between teams, his mind wandered to the struggle within him and the desire to make the game of her and him begin again. He felt the gaze of her affection was possible and wondered which of them would win this fight.
He didn’t believe him nor was he ready to feed into the fantasy that long played in his mind. His fixed a disinterested gaze on the television screen that was mounted on the tavern’s wall. A sports game was playing and in the brief moment the camera panned to reveal the crowd, the image of a woman reminded him of someone he once knew. His friend insisted the girl across the bar was the same one he once felt for and put his life on hold for some time ago.
The girl across the bar resembled the girl in the camera’s eye and in an infinite amount of torrential bits, he tried to make some kind of connection but his mind had a hard time linking that physical being with the person he reveled with in his memory. Her hand was in her hair and she was in casual conversation with a group that seemed to be her friends. He wanted to be the person she smiled at.
Although her bright eyes shone, he saw something more passionate in her than this moment in the crowded tavern and for that brief second, he thought that he could understand. The crowd erupted in appreciation of a good play and he lost sight of her as he tuned his attention to the collective roar.
Hours later, he stumbled back inside after gulping fresh air between drags of cigarettes and slouched back into his assumed position on the bar stool. His friend was swearing up and down that the meaning of existence could be found in slice of fruit at the bottom of his glass to the girl next to him. It was her.
“you’re you,” he said to the girl on the other side of his friend.
“i am” she answered.
“i heard that you went away for a while.”
“i am back.”
“how did it go?”
“there is something to be said about getting away from all of this,” she raised her hand to indicate the surrounding rowdiness. “but really, it is all the same anywhere. I came back to feel more out of place than I did before.”
Her hair was different than the last time he saw her and her completion radiated atmospheres of sun and high altitudes. He wanted to confess that he couldn’t stop thinking of her and that his dreams were tormented of times they never spent together. He wanted to confess that she was too erroneous for him, he was too dependable for her, and that eternity was better left for fiction and films where adoration, reality, and consciousness were better left unaccountable to each other.
“there were things I missed, though, and some part of me is happy to return and to find my place is here,” she continued. “I tried to escape but I can’t imagine ever leaving and not longing to be home.”
His eyes returned to the game on screen and as much as he tried to focus on the plays between teams, his mind wandered to the struggle within him and the desire to make the game of her and him begin again. He felt the gaze of her affection was possible and wondered which of them would win this fight.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Sincerest Form of the Deus Ex Machina
“What was it?” I asked. One of the vessels had broken open and the colors were swirling out in little eddies around our feet.
“Dreams,” you said, “They were formed by irradiation illusion. It’s the interchange and scattering between light and our eyes. It is a little of what is heard, seen, sensed and touched throughout history, time and space. It is all interpersonal relationships come in from sea. We tried to take all thought material and broadened it into a being of beauty and benefit to create The Dream. We planned on all these interesting mutations to form One Dream that was real, touchable, tangible – but some things refuse to be limited in existence.”
I tried to imagine what it would be like if my world was populated by Dreams – refracting, crystallizing and expanding into infinity – but I couldn’t. I asked you what was going to happen to all the broken Dreams. “We don’t have to do anything. They will eventually just evaporate and return to nothingness,” you said.
I admired you and what it was that made you choose to do this in the first place. I wanted to know if you felt as all of your dreams were slowly dissolving. I wondered how it felt to create ten thousand new dreams and then have to abandon them. Through the silence of your eyes you said, “Well, sometimes they’re better if they occur by themselves. Dreams are because emotions can be overwhelming.”
The sun could be seen dawning through the Orchid Jungle, so you had to go but promised you’d meet me back here. I lingered there alone for a few more moments, just to prolong the beginning. As I turned to go, I glanced back for an eternity.
(Imitation of Orlean, Susan The Orchid Thief. New York: Random House, 1998. 151-152)
“Dreams,” you said, “They were formed by irradiation illusion. It’s the interchange and scattering between light and our eyes. It is a little of what is heard, seen, sensed and touched throughout history, time and space. It is all interpersonal relationships come in from sea. We tried to take all thought material and broadened it into a being of beauty and benefit to create The Dream. We planned on all these interesting mutations to form One Dream that was real, touchable, tangible – but some things refuse to be limited in existence.”
I tried to imagine what it would be like if my world was populated by Dreams – refracting, crystallizing and expanding into infinity – but I couldn’t. I asked you what was going to happen to all the broken Dreams. “We don’t have to do anything. They will eventually just evaporate and return to nothingness,” you said.
I admired you and what it was that made you choose to do this in the first place. I wanted to know if you felt as all of your dreams were slowly dissolving. I wondered how it felt to create ten thousand new dreams and then have to abandon them. Through the silence of your eyes you said, “Well, sometimes they’re better if they occur by themselves. Dreams are because emotions can be overwhelming.”
The sun could be seen dawning through the Orchid Jungle, so you had to go but promised you’d meet me back here. I lingered there alone for a few more moments, just to prolong the beginning. As I turned to go, I glanced back for an eternity.
(Imitation of Orlean, Susan The Orchid Thief. New York: Random House, 1998. 151-152)
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
hobbies of learning and discourse
I decided I am uncomfortable discussing identity constructs. It’s messy and complicated and I don’t know enough about Life and Communication to be confident in any Statement I make. This is not to say I am apathetic to the foundations and movements of different groups. Anyone who wants to join in matrimony should be allowed to do so. Have 16 wives or husbands or lovers…. I don’t care. A human is a human is a human and anyone should be allowed to love and display such. But now I’m reading that some self-identified LBGTQA radical groups don’t want to be granted the same institutional rights as everyone else because that is just the Powers That Be trying to assimilate them? Ideas of Heretonormativity and Homonormativity …discuss….
I decided I would be uncomfortable discussing any combination of gender and sexuality in a public space. I’ll listen to people talk about it, but me and my white on white hetero relationships don’t bring anything new to the story. I don’t like when people talk about their bedroom life. It’s probably my religious upbringing that makes me feel a little prude like that. This is not to say I don’t believe that Combinations of Relationships shouldn’t allow to exist.
Movements are not for me. However, knowing my Self, if i Identified with something different that what I do and was ostracized for it, I’d be pissed and probably want to join an appropriate movement to demonstrate the unfairness of the situation. Or maybe I’d rather change things quietly from the inside – sleeper cell style. I understand that radical movements would rather not be assimilated into society but rather have space made for them and their cause, but I think there is a line between radicalism and extremism. Radical movements are tricky because if they are not radical enough, their actions could go unnoticed or if the actions are too radical, it may only increase exclusion.
I believe in the power of the Media which can spread new ideas and open up space for discourse by reaching the Masses. Of course, spoon feeding is not always the Answer, but if I to choose a way to make a change, that would be the way for me. I think it is undeniable that American Society’s way of looking at Gender and Sexuality has become more accepting than, say, 15 years ago. Ellen, and before her, that characters on Roseanne, may have not changed everyone’s opinion on the politics and semantics of LBGTQA rights, but they did open doors for discourse.
Sometimes I feel guilty about feeling guilty that I am a Privileged White Female and that I should find a Cause to support, but if I did would my feelings of biased advantage just increase? I guess it’s kinda a moot point with me because I found happiness of just Being Okay with dismantling normative ways of thinking within myself and all that I can ask of me is to be open and understanding to others. Humanity is always going to find something to argue about… it separates us from the robots.
I decided I would be uncomfortable discussing any combination of gender and sexuality in a public space. I’ll listen to people talk about it, but me and my white on white hetero relationships don’t bring anything new to the story. I don’t like when people talk about their bedroom life. It’s probably my religious upbringing that makes me feel a little prude like that. This is not to say I don’t believe that Combinations of Relationships shouldn’t allow to exist.
Movements are not for me. However, knowing my Self, if i Identified with something different that what I do and was ostracized for it, I’d be pissed and probably want to join an appropriate movement to demonstrate the unfairness of the situation. Or maybe I’d rather change things quietly from the inside – sleeper cell style. I understand that radical movements would rather not be assimilated into society but rather have space made for them and their cause, but I think there is a line between radicalism and extremism. Radical movements are tricky because if they are not radical enough, their actions could go unnoticed or if the actions are too radical, it may only increase exclusion.
I believe in the power of the Media which can spread new ideas and open up space for discourse by reaching the Masses. Of course, spoon feeding is not always the Answer, but if I to choose a way to make a change, that would be the way for me. I think it is undeniable that American Society’s way of looking at Gender and Sexuality has become more accepting than, say, 15 years ago. Ellen, and before her, that characters on Roseanne, may have not changed everyone’s opinion on the politics and semantics of LBGTQA rights, but they did open doors for discourse.
Sometimes I feel guilty about feeling guilty that I am a Privileged White Female and that I should find a Cause to support, but if I did would my feelings of biased advantage just increase? I guess it’s kinda a moot point with me because I found happiness of just Being Okay with dismantling normative ways of thinking within myself and all that I can ask of me is to be open and understanding to others. Humanity is always going to find something to argue about… it separates us from the robots.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Masculin, féminin: the act of me
Hannah, you are out. You have been named.
It’s okay that you cried in front of your whole family during your uncle’s wedding photo, tears which probably appeared to be for no reason. It’s okay when you don’t cry for months because you’re tough and don’t want to put your female embodied emotions on display. You’re so tough, boys enjoy your company because you can hold your whiskey as well as any of them but those nights when you can’t, you are comforted by their displays of masculinity that signify the difference between you and them.
When you cut your hair and some people asked you if you lost any of your strength, you wonder why they are likening you to King Solomon. By cutting your hair, did you gain or lose femininity? When you shaved your entire head in high school, where you any more or less you by doing so? You realize that others view you on your outward appearance and are willing to adjust accordingly in reinventing yourself because no matter how hard you try, you the subject is part of your identity.
Your grandmother once wrote you, “Hannah, be you. Be you…intensely.” So you keep this in mind while performing self, remembering that it’s a man’s world but it’s nothing without you in it. You are the lead role in your life’s story. When you become disillusioned with civilization, remember you are part of it. Remember just as society places subjectivity on you, you do so on others. Remember that without an audience or being audienced, there is no you. But remember as long as you are you, do so with intensity.
It’s okay that you cried in front of your whole family during your uncle’s wedding photo, tears which probably appeared to be for no reason. It’s okay when you don’t cry for months because you’re tough and don’t want to put your female embodied emotions on display. You’re so tough, boys enjoy your company because you can hold your whiskey as well as any of them but those nights when you can’t, you are comforted by their displays of masculinity that signify the difference between you and them.
When you cut your hair and some people asked you if you lost any of your strength, you wonder why they are likening you to King Solomon. By cutting your hair, did you gain or lose femininity? When you shaved your entire head in high school, where you any more or less you by doing so? You realize that others view you on your outward appearance and are willing to adjust accordingly in reinventing yourself because no matter how hard you try, you the subject is part of your identity.
Your grandmother once wrote you, “Hannah, be you. Be you…intensely.” So you keep this in mind while performing self, remembering that it’s a man’s world but it’s nothing without you in it. You are the lead role in your life’s story. When you become disillusioned with civilization, remember you are part of it. Remember just as society places subjectivity on you, you do so on others. Remember that without an audience or being audienced, there is no you. But remember as long as you are you, do so with intensity.
Monday, April 20, 2009
On Music and Milieu
I am a note. I am singular. I am one of many. Alone, I seem insignificant. I am measured by time, relate to others around me and identify myself by initials and symbols. Those who come before and after me define my mood, my milieu, my significance. Within my defined space, I can be melodramatic, light and airy, or understated. Emotions are evoked by my presence or absence, whether by design or chance.
Located strategically, I am part of song but even alone, in silence, I exist. If I am taken out of context, I am still a note - I still disturb the air with sound. If my place changes or if am put in a different position, I will not become insignificant but instead my interactions will signify something different. Other’s perceptions of me are not universal. Distasteful to some, I am revered by others. Even as my creator chose me and positioned me in this space, I seek out and am sought out by others like me. Together, we create a whole whose melody changes with the space we occupy.
The time and space in which I am played is influential upon my meaning. Once I sounded my voice at what seemed to be an appropriate time, but even as the situation seemed necessary to one, it disturbed others. Take for instance, the love of classical music by one Alex DeLarge of A Clockwork Orange. The music he once loved and which embodied his feelings of free will - albeit violent in its materialization - changed its tone once the time and space in which it was heard was violent towards him. Even his appreciation for the lighthearted love song, “Singin’ in the Rain” turned sour as his milieu changed. What was once lovely to him was now a source of fear. His physical location and body had not changed, nor had the notes themselves, but it was the atmosphere which discernibly slipped from gratification to grief.
If you put me in another place, the symbols that define me do not change. Yet, the relationship between me and my surroundings transform my identity. Even in the far end of silence, there are notes. It may be a collection of notes - a collective silence - waiting for a moment to be recognized, signified. It may be a memory that holds a note for safekeeping to be reawakened in deliberate pleasure. It may be a time in which I am waiting to be played in the future, or a place in which to create new meaning and significance to the silence I am breaking.
Poet Oliver Wendell Holmes once said “the best of a book is not the thought which it contains, but the thought which it suggests; just as the charm of music dwells not in the tones but in the echoes of our hearts.” I echo every note that has come before me. I am a remnant of the formations that signify my individual presence in the very space that I form, shape, and even suggest thought and communication. I am a note. Alone, I am singular. With many, I am a song.
Located strategically, I am part of song but even alone, in silence, I exist. If I am taken out of context, I am still a note - I still disturb the air with sound. If my place changes or if am put in a different position, I will not become insignificant but instead my interactions will signify something different. Other’s perceptions of me are not universal. Distasteful to some, I am revered by others. Even as my creator chose me and positioned me in this space, I seek out and am sought out by others like me. Together, we create a whole whose melody changes with the space we occupy.
The time and space in which I am played is influential upon my meaning. Once I sounded my voice at what seemed to be an appropriate time, but even as the situation seemed necessary to one, it disturbed others. Take for instance, the love of classical music by one Alex DeLarge of A Clockwork Orange. The music he once loved and which embodied his feelings of free will - albeit violent in its materialization - changed its tone once the time and space in which it was heard was violent towards him. Even his appreciation for the lighthearted love song, “Singin’ in the Rain” turned sour as his milieu changed. What was once lovely to him was now a source of fear. His physical location and body had not changed, nor had the notes themselves, but it was the atmosphere which discernibly slipped from gratification to grief.
If you put me in another place, the symbols that define me do not change. Yet, the relationship between me and my surroundings transform my identity. Even in the far end of silence, there are notes. It may be a collection of notes - a collective silence - waiting for a moment to be recognized, signified. It may be a memory that holds a note for safekeeping to be reawakened in deliberate pleasure. It may be a time in which I am waiting to be played in the future, or a place in which to create new meaning and significance to the silence I am breaking.
Poet Oliver Wendell Holmes once said “the best of a book is not the thought which it contains, but the thought which it suggests; just as the charm of music dwells not in the tones but in the echoes of our hearts.” I echo every note that has come before me. I am a remnant of the formations that signify my individual presence in the very space that I form, shape, and even suggest thought and communication. I am a note. Alone, I am singular. With many, I am a song.
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